THE IRISH KNIGHT

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Instantly Connal knew what she meant. "Nay," he said; then to his men, "Surround her." But Monroe was there, blocking her with his body.

  Sinead did not have time to disagree and bowed her head, chanting a spell to protect these brave men. To protect Connal. Only she could see the ropes of stars enveloping the soldiers, shielding their bodies from the harshest blows. Yet the ribbon of protection would move no closer to the knights surrounding her. She commanded again, but the death and battle jolted her from the saddle, tumbling her to the ground.

  Sinead curled into a ball to avoid the hooves, then waved her hand, the motion pushing the mounts back so she could stand. She raced from the battleground, standing on the edge of a small snow-covered field. Connal had not noticed and she dared not call out, lest she distract him and watch him die. Her gaze fastened on him, the only knight without a helm. He lifted the sword high and swung hard, slicing through bone and flesh. When his assailant tried to stab his horse, he kicked the man in the throat, then beheaded him as he tried to scream. Sinead's stomach rolled, yet she could not take her gaze from him, terrified this would be the moment her dreams would become real.

  In the center of the battle, Connal dispatched his attackers quickly, his stallion's hooves crushing any chance of escape. Behind him, Galeron defended his back. When the last man fled into the trees, Connal sent troops after them, then turned toward Sinead.

  Only her blind mount remained in the protection of his knights.

  His heart slammed to his stomach and he scanned the area.

  He saw naught but a bush in the field, its greenery and red flowers stark against the snow. A man headed toward it, then fled into the woods. Branor bolted after the brigand, clipping him on the side of the head with the flat of his sword. Connal's gaze frantically searched the area as he called her name.

  His eyes flared as the bush grew, widened. Sinead, he thought as she turned slowly, spreading her arms. The green shrubbery melted into the folds of her mantle, a thousand red butterflies clinging to her hair and cloak. The tiny creatures climbed into the air, circling above her head and painting the gray sky before vanishing.

  He met her gaze. "I did not disappear," she said in her defense.

  Connal smiled, too relieved that she was alive and unharmed to be upset over a bit of magic. He strode closer, wanting to hold her so badly and yet frowning softly when her gaze suddenly shifted past him. Connal turned in that direction just as a black bolt came spearing out from the trees right at him.

  Commanding the wind, Sinead slapped the air and sent it downward. It sped past Connal and he whipped around in time to see the bolt find its target.

  In Sinead's heart.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  GleannTaise Castle

  In the cookhouse Fionna dropped the spoon, then gripped the stone wall as a sudden sharp pain ripped through her. It left her stunned, her breathing coming in short pants, her eyes burning with tears. My stars, she thought.

  Behind her Colleen chatted away, but when she realized Fionna was not responding, she turned. "M'lady?" She wiped her hand on her apron and stepped closer.

  Fionna could only nod, the pain making her legs tremble.

  Colleen snapped her fingers at a servant. "Get his lordship." The child raced from the hot confines as Colleen crossed to her. Fionna's hand shot out to grip Colleen's as she faced her.

  "Raymond," she whispered, and Colleen looked down, her eyes widening.

  "My lord!" she shouted and helped Fionna nearer to the worktables.

  Raymond rushed inside, moving quickly to his wife. She turned toward him, her eyes bleak.

  "Great Scots, what happened?" he uttered when he saw the blood staining her gown near her shoulder.

  Fionna gripped his arms, staring at him with pain-glazed eyes. "'Tis not my wound but Sinead. Oh, love, she's dying."

  "Nay! Nay!" he demanded sharply, as if the word would stop the truth, and he swept her into his arms, carrying her from the hot kitchen and into the hall. He demanded the table cleared, but she would not have it.

  "The tower," she managed as blood flowed from her. "She is too weak to fight this. She needs help." Raymond moved to the staircase and prayed for strength to mount the steps.

  The hall doors burst open, wind and mist rolling into the hall with the figure of a man. "Raymond!" the man shouted.

  Colleen shrieked and rushed to her husband. Garrick held her tightly, kissed her briefly with the vigor of a man half his age, then moved to his leader.

  Raymond was already beyond the first five steps.

  "My lord, wait."

  "I cannot."

  "Sire, you must. He's sent someone to kill her."

  Raymond froze, and both he and Fionna looked down at Sir Garrick standing at the first steps.

  "I was in London. I learned…" Garrick struggled to say the words. "Prince John has sent an assassin. After Lady Sinead."

  Raymond looked down at his wife, the blood blossoming from a wound that did not exist. "You are too late, my friend." Tears burned his eyes. "He has succeeded."

  * * *

  "Kill the bastard!" Galeron commanded as Connal rushed to Sinead, catching her as she folded.

  "Oh, sweet Jesu, Sinead."

  "I thought I could send it into the ground." Above their heads, a hail of arrows launched into the trees.

  "Well, you did not, dammit."

  "Do not swear at me, PenDragon."

  Connal's hand shook as he tried to look beneath her cloak. The bolt was imbedded above her breast and she winced and shuddered in his arms when he moved the fur and fabric.

  He looked at her gravely. "I have to snap off the shaft, Sinead."

  She nodded, her lips gone white as the snow beneath them. "Go on, then." She had no choice, for even her own magic could not help her right now. She opened her eyes, laying her trust in him and, as Galeron held her shoulders, he broke off the thick wooden shaft.

  The blood fountained and Connal reached under his armor, tearing at his tunic and stuffing it against the wound. He wasted no time and swept her up, carrying her to his horse. Nahjar waited beside it, taking her, his expression tense as Connal mounted.

  "I can ride, I think."

  "Do not think to argue with me now!" Nahjar handed her up to him. Her breathing came harder, the slight movement making the wound pulse with the flow of blood. Connal could feel it. Like spilling wine, her life was leaving her.

  "You should have let it go," he said, kneeing the horse forward.

  Her fingers dug into the fabric beneath his chest plate. "Then it would have hit you."

  He looked down sharply, the muscles in his chest like steel around his heart. "I know. But I can survive a bolt, Sinead. I have, many times. I swear, woman…

  "I will not live, Connal." She said it softly, sadly.

  His heart slammed to a stop. "Aye, you will!" Yet he could feel her death coming, her blood pumping out of her fragile body, her heartbeat slowing. The backs of his eyes burned hot and he cradled her in his arms, riding like a madman toward King Rory's castle.

  She will not die in my arms, he chanted. She will not.

  But the single thought plagued him; the last woman he'd cared about had done just that.

  * * *

  When the surgeon hung over her, about to bleed her, Connal grabbed the man by the back of his tunic before he could cut her and tossed him across the stone floor. "Dare that again and I will cut you to ribbons!" he growled, and the surgeon scooted back on his behind, knocking over a chair. "She's bled enough already, you fool!"

  Connal ignored the man's fear and strode to the door, bellowing for Nahjar, uncaring that this was Rory's castle, that he had command of it. He paced while he waited, glancing once at Sinead and refusing to look at King Rory, who had not spoken or moved since Connal's latest outburst.

  Nahjar appeared, a leather bundle tucked under his arms. "Do what you can," Connal said, then glared at the others litterin
g the chamber till the room emptied. Only Rory remained.

  Nahjar moved to the bed where she lay bare beneath the sheet, pale and frail. Her rattled breathing was the only sound in the chamber. Nahjar examined the wound, then looked at Connal, and he knew they had two choices: pull the arrow out or push it clean through to the other side of her shoulder.

  "It is too near bone and her heart," Nahjar said, "If I push it through, it will surely kill her." The sickening feeling Connal had held at bay since she'd taken the bolt swelled. 'Twas always more dangerous to pull it out, and if the tip was winged … it would rip her body to shreds.

  "Hold her down Sajin, for even like this, she will struggle."

  Connal, stripped of his armor and hauberk, moved to the opposite side of the bed, careful as he crawled onto the bedding beside her. His each and every heartbeat was long and aching and he fought his fears and held her down.

  She moaned quietly, her eyes fluttering open. Her gaze moved drearily from the tattooed Moor to Connal. He did not have to explain and she nodded.

  Nahjar widened the already red and severed skin, and when she whimpered in pain, Connal whispered to her, "Look at me, Sinead."

  Her eyes opened slowly.

  "Keep looking at me."

  Nahjar worked with painstaking tenderness to free the thick bolt. Her blood flowed like aged wine, and though Connal had seen more horrific wounds, he could not watch her delicate skin be so torn.

  "You will be fine," he encouraged, his expression harsh.

  "Liar."

  "Listen to me, woman," he said angrily. "You have caused more trouble than ten Saracens, so do not think I will be denied my justice."

  "Idle threats," she whispered faintly, then sucked in a lungful of air with her pain.

  Connal glared at Nahjar. "Be gentle!"

  "Yes, Sajin." Regardless, the man kept working as he had been.

  Connal shifted carefully, bending low to meet her gaze. "Stay with me, Sinead." Usually, in the past, Connal had preferred to be unconscious when Nahjar worked on him, but something inside him warned that if he let her go, he would never see her bright eyes again.

  Weakly, Sinead lifted her hand to touch his thigh.

  "Can you use your magic?" he asked.

  She shook her head ever so slightly. "Mother … mayhaps…"

  Her mother was leagues away in GleannTaise, a useless wish, and Connal knew he'd no power to keep her in the land of the living.

  Nahjar jerked the bolt free and she arched in the bed, not making a sound. Not shedding a tear. Then she was lost, her eyes closing, and Connal feared, for the last time. He called her name over and over, willing her to respond, as Nahjar quickly stanched the bleeding, applying a pressure that would leave her bruised. He took Connal's hand and placed it over the wound, then went about preparing to clean and stitch her. Nahjar examined the bolt tip, sniffing it, then looked at Connal.

  "Speak, man."

  "I fear it is poisoned."

  Connal cursed. Then cursed again.

  "It smells foul, Sajin. And will fester. The wound will not kill her, but the poison … I cannot stop it."

  Connal felt as if a black blanket fell over his world, darkening it with no way out. He swallowed thickly and bowed over her, his head on the pillow beside hers. "Do not die, Sinead. I forbid it."

  Ahh, PenDragon, he heard in his mind, in this you cannot order me. I shall find you in the next life.

  Nay! Dammit, do not toy with me like this! Stay alive.

  A soft laughter filled his mind. It was effortless and free, in a place that offered no pain, no blood.

  "Sinead! Stay here!" he pleaded, his voice fracturing.

  Nahjar poured powders into the wound, then made to stitch it.

  "Do not close that stench inside her!" a voice said from behind.

  Connal looked up, blinked to focus. A tall, barrel-chested man stood in the center of the chamber, and Connal's frown deepened. He was unfamiliar, yet something about him struck a memory too deep to pull to the surface. Glossy black hair heavy with silver fell to his shoulders, braided in the old way, barely shielding bright blue eyes. Fenian Erin, was his first thought. Furs wrapped his chest and legs, several weapons filling the belt circling his waist.

  King Rory went pale at the sight of him, and Connal didn't consider how the man had gained entry. Without permission the stranger moved to the side of the bed, pushing Nahjar back and glaring at Connal.

  "You should know better, O'Rourke."

  "Who the hell are you?"

  Connal glanced back at Rory, who stood motionless near the hearth.

  "He is Quinn," Rory said. "Queen Egrain's firstborn."

  Fionna's brother. Sinead's uncle. Connal's gaze snapped to the man, and he saw the familiar features of Fionna in his weathered face.

  "Help her."

  "'Tis why I've been summoned."

  "By who?" But Connal was already moving back to give the man room.

  "Her mother, laddie. She bleeds with her daughter as Egrain bled for hers."

  "Well, she bleeds, tool."

  "Quiet!" Quinn laid his weapons aside, then leaned over Sinead and whispered, "Givin' up are you, little spirit?"

  A tiny sound escaped her, and even that gave Connal hope.

  "I never thought you'd let such a wee wound stop you," he challenged, and on the bed her fingers closed into a fist.

  Quinn asked for a bowl of fresh rainwater and Connal gave it, then made to leave. "Nay, Connal, stay. The rest of you, leave us."

  Without argument, Rory moved to the door, Nahjar in his wake, and when they were alone, Quinn looked at Connal. "Put your hand on her wound."

  Connal hesitated, aware he could hurt her more. "She needs strength and I am too old to give more."

  From a pouch at his waist, Quinn sprinkled powder into the bowl of fresh water, stirring it three times in the shape of a star, and saying, "Power of the One, ancient and strong, elements of life come to me." He tipped it to her lips. "Drink of pure light, taste of its power. Wash the poison, cleanse her this hour." Quinn poured the remainder of the water over Connal's hand and into her wounds. "Draw from this warrior now, bind his strength sharp and clean. Of the land, of the gleanns, purify our elfin queen." Quinn pressed Connal's hand deeply and Sinead moaned in pain, yet Quinn refused to set him free. Connal could not move; his hand beneath Quinn's felt as if it were sinking into her, giving her more pain, but he could not take his gaze from Quinn's as the man said, "Lady of the sky, of earth and light, Lady of water and fire bright. Gather now and do my bidding. Blood within her blood. Heart within your heart." Quinn's eyes sparkled with a strange light, growing smoky before he said, "So I say, so mote it be."

  Connal flinched. A slicing sensation drove up his arm, as if he'd struck his sword against stone, vibrating through him with a painless agony that left him breathless. He choked for air, looking down at Sinead, a tugging yanking through his blood. His skin felt like glass, fragile and hard, his heartbeat slowing with his breathing. He could feel inside her just then, her lungs struggling, her blood moving in her veins.

  Then her heartbeat tripled and his fear rose.

  Just as quickly it slowed, the sensations fading from him, and he didn't know how long he sat there, his hand on her, her body so lifeless.

  Slowly, he met Quinn's gaze. The man was already on his feet and backing away.

  "You would dare leave her like this?"

  "I have done all I can, my prince." A grim smile curled his lips. "The rest is in your hands."

  Connal pulled his hand free of Sinead, his palm sticky with her blood. Her breathing had not changed, yet the bleeding had stopped. He looked from his palm to her, then to Quinn. And he found himself alone in the chamber.

  "Witches," he grumbled, carefully leaving the bed. He stood and the room tilted, and he sank back down, and, after a few moments, rinsed his hand in the basin beside the bed. As the water darkened, Connal frowned at the crescent-shaped cut he did not remember feeling.


  It must have happened during the attack, he thought, yet he'd felt no pain. Pitching the water, he refilled the basin and moved to the bed, sitting on the edge beside her. Soaking a fresh cloth, he washed the blood from Sinead's shoulder.

  Beneath the crusted blood he found her wound angry and deep.

  And shaped like the crescent moon.

  * * *

  King Rory O'Connor stood just inside the chamber, a bevy of servants moving past him with fresh water, cloths, and food. Although they padded quietly, Connal had yet to stir from his position beside the bed, where he'd been for the last two days. He did not bother to look up, entranced by the rise and fall of Lady Sinead's breathing.

  Rory closed the door, blocking out the noise. His castle was in an uproar over their arrival. Not because of the army of English soldiers and knights, but for the lady dying in the bed. The thought of what would come if she perished sickened him.

  "My lord?" he called softly, stepping close.

  Connal scoffed to himself, then looked up at the Irish king. "I believe, your highness, that I am the one to address you as such."

  "I am king by power; you are one by right."

  Inside Connal groaned and shook his head. Not this again.

  Rory looked down at Sinead. "I remember the child, wild and hungry for life; I remember the girl, about to wed O'Brien."

  Connal's features creased deeper. The man's emotions, his concern came to him louder than his voice. 'Twas subtle, he realized, like a whisper barely heard, and tried to ignore it.

  "Her plight then rallied a dozen clans to take her back, yet all it took was her father's determination."

  Duncan, Rory, and who else had gone after the man who'd hurt Sinead? Then knew if he'd been there he'd have joined the fight.

  "I understand, for I've three daughters. All redheads."

  Connal chuckled to himself, but the sound fell short of laughter.

  Rory coaxed him away from the bedside and to the table offering food and drink. Connal washed, then slumped in a chair, bone tired as he nibbled, his appetite as faint as his hope. Sinead had not moved in hours, her breathing so shallow he had to press his hand to her chest to be certain she still lived.